


One of Those Kind of Days

by asocialconstruct



Series: terrible htp minifills [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU Hydra Wins, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Medical, POV Sam Wilson, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asocialconstruct/pseuds/asocialconstruct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the HTP: Project Insight crashes and burns, but HYDRA had a dozen backup plans and a ways down the road, one of them works. Steve and Sam have found Bucky and they’ve been working together, but then suddenly HYDRA’s in charge of the entire world and Bucky and Sam (and Steve?) are taken captive. </p><p>--</p><p>Sam smells him before he sees him, the deep, clotted blood and chemical burn of explosions that are the only reason he's allowed to see Bucky anymore.</p><p>(Originally posted as To Build a Better World, but I've taken that title for the long version)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those Kind of Days

Sam smells him before he sees him, the deep, clotted blood and chemical burn of explosions that are the only reason he's allowed to see Bucky anymore.  
  
Bucky lists in the corner like a doll someone's tossed there, slumped bonelessly with his head propped against the wall to watch the door. His left hand spasms against the floor when the door opens, right tucked into the corner to protect whatever injury he's got. Bucky's a pale, shocky gray, chained to the wall even though he can barely move, blood staining the wall and floor around him.  
  
"He needs a doctor," Sam says, hesitating in the door like a coward. It's touch and go how much Bucky remembers him time to time, but this is the worst they've dragged him back yet and it only takes once for it to be over for Sam. Bucky is, selfishly, his only insurance in here; if he lets Bucky die, they have no use for him. If Bucky kills him because he doesn't know Sam from Hydra, well, it's no loss to anyone but Brock Rumlow's rapist dick.  
  
"And here you are," Rumlow says with a wave of his hand, settling in to prop up the wall and supervise.  
  
"He needs morphine, a blood transfusion, clean saline--I can't--"  
  
"You've got a half hour to stitch him up before he goes back in the tank," Brock snarls, swinging Sam around by the collar to slam back against the wall. The medic bag rattles against the wall and Bucky rattles with it, jerking against the chains tying him to the wall. Sam can see him over Brock's shoulder, feral and half mad but still Bucky, somewhere in there. "Clean him up or don't, I don't give a shit," Brock spits in Sam's face. He smells like he does when he wants to fuck Sam rough at the end of a bad day; like sweat and anger and his terrible frat boy deoderant. "But don't fucking bitch about it."

Sam shoves Brock's hands off him, turning to Bucky with a stiff back.  
  
"Goddamn pussy medics," Brock spits at his back.  
  
Bucky knows him, watches him and Rumlow warily, tracking Sam's movement toward him and Brock's movement away. Sam gives Rumlow half a glance before setting down his bag next to Bucky and kneeling slowly next to him, palms open. Brock goes back to propping up the wall, cleaning under his nails with a pocket knife, and Sam hates himself for being grateful that Rumlow might have clean nails next time.  
  
Sam pulls out his bare supplies, the emergency glucose first. He rubs it on Bucky's gums, an obscene parody of what they used to do, and Rumlow snorts derisively at the show. Sam glares over his shoulder at him, but keeps his attention on Bucky. Just because Bucky's less likely to lash out when it's Sam putting in his stitches doesn't mean he doesn't.  
  
He lays out the rest once Bucky's come around enough to take the glucose and a bottle of water himself. Pathetic, is what his kit is, the bare essentials hydra will risk the Winter Soldier killing someone with. Two bottles of distilled water and emergency glucose. Suture kit, guaze and iodine. Duct tape and super glue. Inhumane, is what it is. Duct tape and super glue were both originally developed for wound closures, but that doesn't make it humane.  
  
Sam cuts Bucky's clothes off him with the blunt tipped tape scissors and tries not to think about anything. Not about the shape Bucky's in, not Rumlow watching predatorialy now that Bucky's clothes are being cut off, not about the happier times Sam's undressed Bucky, in such a hurry their clothes tore. It's worse once Sam gets the compression shirt cut off him, cuts that had been bleeding sluggishly starting to bleed again once the fabric is peeled away from the scabs, deeper than it all looked hidden under the black tac suit and burned besides.   
  
Bucky's leg isn't as bad as he expected, but that's not saying much, all of him scorched in a way that can only mean he was caught by the heat of the blast as well as the shrapnel. Bucky doesn't even react when Sam starts to carefully dab the his raw skin with iodine.  
  
"Where's Steve?" Bucky asks with his eyes closed, because it's one of those kind of days.  
  
He thinks about lying to Bucky, but he hasn't yet. Hydra lies to Bucky; Sam won't, even though it hurts. "He's dead," Sam says, irrigating the deepest shrapnel hits, careful of the water because there won't be more no matter how badly Bucky needs it. Steve's been dead for months. Bucky just nods with his eyes closed tightly, because somewhere in there he remembers, he just needs Sam to remember for him sometimes.  
  
Sam stitches him up in silence, trying to find words to help Bucky remember, but his own throat closes up. Tears aren't sterile, but there's not much he can do about any of it. Bucky watches him after a while, the rescue glucose waking him up some.  
  
He reaches up to touch Sam's face, his own last dose of Hydra's order. It barely hurts anymore, if he doesn't think about it too much, if he doesn't give Brock a reason to push his face into the floor. Bucky's fingers are cool, brightening the pain just a little, but smoothing it away in the same motion.  
  
"It hurts less if you pretend to like it," Bucky says, his head lolling on his neck, hand dropping like that was the last of his energy. He's quiet, barely audible to Sam. Brock doesn't notice, still picking his nails. "He won't hurt you if you don't fight back."  
  
And God, he knew, he couldn't not know with Rumlow panting it into his ear when he gets in particularly vicious moods, how much Steve had begged before he knew, how Bucky does whatever he's told, but it's something else hearing it this way and knowing it in his bones. He'd cry for Bucky forever if it did either of them any good, but it won't, so he doesn't.  
  
"Drug him up and get the show on the road, Wilson," Rumlow says from the door, bored.  
  
"Don't fucking rush me unless you want to take responsibility for him bleeding out," Sam snaps over his shoulder, and his voice comes out annoyed instead of broken.  
  
But then it's time, and Sam can't dawdle over Bucky's stitches any longer without actually looking like he's dawdling. The syringe is huge, the worst part of his kit, and they take the label off the bottle he fills it from, so he doesn't know if he's even drugging Bucky with the same thing from time to time.   
  
"Can you hold out your arm for me, Buck?" he asks, and Bucky isn't so far gone that he doesn't. Brock watches this part with unnerving focus, watchful since the time Sam faked it and Bucky almost got them out. "You're doing great, you're so good for me, Bucky," Sam murmurs, sweet quiet nothings as he strokes Bucky's inner elbow to find the vein. "Just a little longer, Buck, I just need you to hang on a little longer and remember, and we'll get out of this together." How, he doesn't know, but someone has to be alive and looking for them. They have to be.  
  
They wait until Bucky's lolled back against the wall again, glassy eyed and distant, pulse sluggish, and then Rumlow's yanking him out.   
  
Steve would hate him for what he's let them do to Bucky, what he's helped them do to Bucky.  God rest him.  
  
Brock follows him out the door and Sam takes the lead, trying not to look at the cart being rolled to Buckys cell after them. Sam knows where he's going; Rumlow likes the fantasy that he's so broken he doesn't need to be led, and one of these days Sam is going to put it to use and get Bucky out of here.  
  
"You know this would never work with Rogers," Rumlow says conversationally, like he's talking about the weather. That same teasing sneer, telling Sam about something he'll never see again. "Rogers got through that cottage cheese head with just a word or two, but you? He doesn't remember a damn thing about you. He's got more memory of my dick up his ass than he ever had of you."   
  
Brock slaps a hand on Sam's shoulder and holds it, like they're just telling stories about an old army buddy. Brock's like this sometimes, when they pretend to watch football together, like they're friends and it's Sam's fault for not understanding that things just are the way they are.  
  
Bucky's right. It hurts more when he fights back, but it's goddamn worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Long version available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4358828/chapters/9888884).


End file.
